by Ruth Glover
And Birdie, having satisfactorily handled that small problem, turned restless once again.
Lunchtime was no better. With resolution she stayed away from the north windows, and when she stepped outside to check on the children and to walk around a little, she stayed strictly on the south side of the building. Realizing what she was doing, and why, brought a rush of blood to her cheeks and a feeling of despair that she should be so affected by a simple, unsigned letter.
With the children settled down to work again, Birdie turned to a stack of magazines and papers, thumbing through them, looking not only for something to read to the children but to direct her own wonderings and wanderings into safer channels.
Picking up an outdated copy of The Youth’s Companion, her attention was caught by a short account of a peddler of flypaper. Happy for the diversion, she read:
“I have here some of the most wonderful flypaper you ever saw,” the salesman said, standing at the door, unrolling his wares for a lady’s inspection. “Every inch of it is warranted to attract as many flies as can stand upon a square inch, reckoned to be, madam, in the neighborhood of thirty-two, without uncomfortable crowding.”
Who would care if a fly were crowded, Birdie thought disgustedly, especially if you were in the act of killing it? Still, she read on, intrigued by the persistent flypaper salesman’s tactics:
“That would make,” the man continued smoothly, “on a sheet of this size, which contains five hundred squares, sixteen thousand flies. Think of that, ma’am! And at the ridiculous price of a nickel.”
Birdie, ever a teacher, began to see possibilities of making this account into an arithmetic problem for the children. Flies being an everlasting nuisance, the problem might challenge her sixth graders:
“Now here, ma’am,” the man continued, unrolling a larger sample of his wares, “is a sheet containing fifteen hundred squares. That means forty-eight thousand flies saved from falling into the soup or the butter, madam—”
Abandoning her plan with a shudder, Birdie turned the page. She was soon caught up in the paper’s report of the remarkable horseless carriage:
Advocates of carriages driven by motor-engines assert that they are certain to become popular because they will save money. In England it is estimated that the cost of fodder for a horse traveling twenty miles a day is twopence per mile, while a motor-wagon of two and a half horse-power can be driven the same distance at the expense of half a penny per mile. Another argument used in behalf of the horseless carriage is that two-thirds of the present wear and tear of roads is caused by horses.
The Drop Octagonal, ever timely, never hurried, never late, sounded out three o’clock. Rejecting the accounts she had just read, interesting though they were and with certain mathematical possibilities, she settled on a story found on the children’s page—“Eunice’s Sampler.” It would elicit a few groans from the boys, but with a promise of “Kenny and His Sled Dog” to follow, they would settle down.
The children knew the routine; books were being closed, desk lids opened, and lesson material stuffed inside. A few fingers were raised, resulting in several children making a trip to the water pail, but finally everyone was seated, properly attentive, and story time began.
Birdie never knew that lips could speak certain words while the mind, like a thing set apart, could be thinking of matters entirely separate and distinct. Finally, after struggling through the two stories, she gave one last desperate glance at the clock and, though it was lacking ten minutes to closing time, announced, “Now you may gather up the things you will be taking home. We’ll dismiss school a few minutes early today.”
When every straggler was gone, when the door was shut and the room silent except for the ticking of the clock, Birdie sat at her desk, listening to time tick away and wondering why she had been so desperate for the day to come to an end.
Finally, abruptly, she rose. Once on her feet she hesitated, then moved slowly toward the north windows. Standing in the shadows of the room she turned her gaze toward the birch circle. The late afternoon sun pierced the bush and lit the small gathering place, a favorite with the children.
Nothing. As she had suspected, nothing. No one.
But wait. There was a movement, someone creeping... yes, creeping through the bush, stealthily approaching the birches from the side, pausing just before reaching them, crouching, peering, studying the ring, finding it empty. Finding it empty and standing erect, parting the bushes, making certain. Then turning, sending a searching gaze toward the schoolhouse, frowning, clearly chagrined at her failure to appear.
The face peering from the bush was flushed. It was nervous. It was guilty. It was Buck.
I’m going over to Marfa’s this afternoon, Dad,” Ellie reminded her father as he made ready to go out to his afternoon’s work.
“Shall I hitch up for you?” he asked.
“No need. I’ll walk.”
Farms in the Saskatchewan bush were, ordinarily, not large, seldom exceeding the quarter-section originally homesteaded. And though homes were isolated because of the bush and the weather, they were not far apart, and Marfa and her husband George Polchek were only two miles away, not an unreasonable distance to walk.
The Polcheks were among those “stalwart peasants” referred to by Sifton, the minister of the interior whose zeal netted tens of thousands of poor, persecuted Europeans seeking free land and an opportunity to pioneer in peace. The Polcheks came in the first wave, and George, being over eighteen, joyfully claimed one of the last homesteads available in the community of Bliss while his brothers and father went farther afield.
George was a pioneer in the true sense of the word, with acreage to clear, ground to break, buildings to erect. Somewhere along the line he had met Marfa and they had fallen in love, and Marfa gladly and willingly joined herself to the enterprise of making a home and a farm out of the raw materials on George’s land.
Nevertheless, it was a mighty crude operation that was spread out before Ellie as she made her way from the road up the lane to the cabin on the raw patch of ground so recently wrenched from the bush’s resisting grip: a small barn with a sod roof, a garden, a well, a cabin of two rooms, filled with love and happiness in spite of having known tears of disappointment over the loss of several previously expected babies.
The screen door was open, Marfa was watching, and her welcome was warm.
“Come in, come in!” she exclaimed, her small, round figure almost vibrating with pleasure and satisfaction.
“Vonnie isn’t here yet, I take it,” Ellie said as she stepped up onto the stoop, seeing no rig and knowing Vonnie would drive, having three miles or so to come.
“I think she’s turning in now,” Marfa said, and the two young women paused on the step, watching and waiting.
Now, as ever across the years, it was Ellie and Marfa together—the one slim and trim and vibrant, dusky skinned and dark-haired, with hazel-green eyes as full of lively interest as in days of childhood; the other, Marfa, shorter, more rotund of figure than usual, with the stamp of kindness and goodness shining from her round face.
And as ever, though Vonnie had grown up as one of the accepted “gang of four,” she was a step or two outside the magic circle that united Ellie and Marfa. Outside the circle and, by some inner knowing aware of it, often resenting it, sometimes challenging it, but never able to invade it.
What Vonnie’s thoughts were as she pulled up to the cabin to see Ellie and Marfa together as so often before was her own secret. But she did say, as she pulled the horse to a stop and looked at her friends, “Well. And so there you are. Again.” And added gaily, “A gang of two.”
“Three, actually,” Marfa said as she stepped forward, patting her burgeoning middle. “And now that you’re here—four.”
“It doesn’t seem right without Flossy, of course,” Ellie added, holding out her hand to Vonnie and helping her down.
At the head of the horse, Marfa looked expectantly toward the barn, and sure en
ough, a sturdy overall-clad form appeared in the doorway. With a wave, George strode toward them.
George’s greeting, spoken in his broken English, was warm. “You girls haf a goot time, now,” he concluded, adding as he turned back toward the barn, horse in tow, “and leaf some of dem tarts for me.”
“Oh, George!” Marfa laughed, adding fondly, “You’d think I starved him, to hear him talk. Come on in, girls, and we’ll see what he’s talking about.”
With a smile and a courtly dip of his head, George led the horse away, and the three friends went inside the cabin.
It was the first time Vonnie had been back to Bliss since her marriage, and she looked Marfa’s home over frankly.
“You’re very comfortable, I see.” Vonnie was removing her gloves and lifting her hat from her head.
Give her a few more days in Bliss, both Marfa and Ellie were thinking, and Vonnie will discard her fineries and be back in harness, helping with the milking, hoeing in the garden, putting up jams and jellies with the rest of us.
“Most everything you see,” Marfa explained in response to Vonnie’s comment, “was given to us when we married. I don’t know what we’d have done without them.” And she went around the room pointing out various items—doilies, pictures, cushions, rag rugs, tablecloth, tea towels, pieces of china—all adding to the utility and comfort and even beauty of the small domicile.
“It looks like you, Marfa,” Vonnie commented. “Homey, comfortable. And probably happy.”
“You’re right about that last part,” Marfa admitted, smiling, and Ellie and Vonnie knew that if it had been otherwise, if Marfa had been miserable, it would have shown. Marfa was as open as a sunflower.
On the table in the center of the room were a plate of tarts, three cups and saucers, and three snowy serviettes embroidered by Marfa in the long and sometimes lonely winter hours of her confinements.
Marfa made tea and served it; the girls complimented her on the flakiness of her pastry and the daintiness of her linens and talked about old times, those memories that bound them together. The intervening years had erased the squabbles, disappointments, hurts, and jealousies, and only the rosy glow of childhood remained.
“I miss Flossy,” they said more than once and shared what news they had of this missing fourth person. Flossy had married a half Indian man and moved—first to Prince Albert and then north to the timber.
“Her husband is in logging, I understand,” Marfa said and paused suddenly, remembering, looking at Vonnie with stricken eyes. A logging accident had taken the life of Vonnie’s husband.
“Never mind,” Vonnie said. “I was going to tell you about it anyway.”
Ellie and Marfa listened sympathetically to the account of the accident, Vonnie’s shock and sorrow, and her eventual decision to come home.
“There was no reason to stay there,” she explained. “I couldn’t support myself away out there. You think you’re a pioneer, Marfa? You should have seen Chance; it’s as raw as they come. I had no idea, of course, when I went.”
Vonnie had met Vernon Whinnery on a trip to Prince Albert. He had made it a point, following that occasion, to come to Bliss twice. The third time was for the wedding. But that’s the way romances often were, in the bush and on the prairies. Often they were not romances but conveniences, a mate having died and the bereaved husband—especially if he were a father—desperate for help, company, and consolation.
And so Vonnie, not knowing much about Vernon Whinnery except that he was single, handsome, and a good dancer, had willingly taken her chances and moved to Chance.
“It’s well named,” she said now. “Somebody knew what they were doing when they chose it. But I didn’t know. Though I miss Vernon terribly, I have to admit it almost feels like coming back to civilization to come home to Bliss.”
Bliss—civilization? Ellie and Marfa, true children of the frontier, might have smiled, if humor wouldn’t have been so inappropriate at the moment.
Vonnie’s parents were among Bliss’s first settlers, and their toughest years were behind them. Here Vonnie had a room of her own, with her familiar things around her and the loving care of parents who idolized her.
“I’d like to stay,” Vonnie said simply. “I’d like very much just to stay in Bliss.”
The other two murmured encouraging words.
“You’ve lost your mother since I’ve been gone,” Vonnie said, turning to Ellie. “Of course my mum wrote me about it. I’m very sorry.”
Ellie gripped Vonnie’s extended hand for a moment. “It’s all right,” she said. “Dad has needed me—”
“You and Tom,” Vonnie said, “I thought you’d marry, of course. So many years, Ellie. How come...” Vonnie’s voice trailed away.
“It just hasn’t been right,” Ellie said a trifle uncomfortably. Marfa, knowing that something was seriously wrong, keeping Ellie and Tom from marriage, changed the subject.
“Ellie’s become quite the doctor hereabouts. Grandma Jurgenson can’t keep on forever, and she often takes Ellie along when she’s called to a birthing or an injury.”
“It’s what’s been on your heart for a long time, of course,” Vonnie said reminiscently.“You always wanted to do things for people, remember?”
“I remember,” Ellie said.
“Remember the Nikolai head-washing experience?”
All three girls laughed, perhaps a bit ruefully, recalling that first experiment in granting their services to Bliss...forcing their services upon Bliss, they admitted now.
“Remember the insignia you made, Ellie?” Marfa asked. “That’s what it was, though we generally referred to it as a badge—The Badge of the Busy Bees. You made it, Ellie, with your usual creativity. You always came up with the best ideas! That badge was particularly clever; I remember that we all took turns wearing it with such pride. Whatever happened to it?”
“No one seems to remember that,” Vonnie said, reaching for the teapot and a fresh cup of tea. “Do you remember, Ellie?”
“I don’t remember,” Ellie said.
“Perhaps Flossy ended up with it,” Vonnie continued. “Of course, we all lost interest in it after... after the tragedy. Do you remember—”
Ellie’s unseeing gaze was turned on the bottom of her cup...
Hoeing was a job that left a lot of time for thinking, even for a twelve-year-old. Ellie paused, wiping the perspiration from her brow, leaning on the hoe, resting her back. And thinking. And though she was alone except for Wrinkles the Third who was chasing a butterfly nearby, she exclaimed aloud, “Yes, good idea!”
At double speed now she finished the row and turned toward the house. Laying the hoe aside, she opened the door, calling as she stepped in, “Mum!”
“Here, Ellie. I’m right here.”
Of course. Ellie was always so eager, sometimes impatient, when she had an idea or a plan.
“I’ve got an idea!”
Serena looked up from her sewing, smiling faintly. Ellie had taken another flight of fancy.
“Now what?” she asked, snipping a thread.
“Mum, could we have salmon for supper?”
“Salmon?” her mother questioned. “Salmon for supper? That’s your grand idea? I have potatoes in the oven—”
“Salmon would be good with baked potatoes. How about it, Mum?”
Serena sighed. “Suppose you tell me why this sudden interest in salmon?”
“I want the can. Can I have the can, Mum?”
“There are cans in the trash behind the barn—”
“Rusty. Old. Bent. I want a fresh, new one.”
“Well, I suppose we can have salmon.” Fondly Serena laid aside her sewing, went to the cabinet, and checked among several cans stored there.
“Does it have to be salmon?”
“I guess not,” Ellie said at her mother’s elbow. “Marrowfat peas would be all right, I guess. Any can that size. But I like salmon better than marrowfat peas. So it might as well be salmon, right, Mum?”
“Careful,” Ellie warned, hovering at her side. “I want you to take the end off all the way. It’s the end I want, not the can.”
“Ellie,” Serena warned, pausing, “the edges are awfully sharp. You could cut yourself.”
“I won’t, Mum!” Ellie declared scornfully. “What do you think I am—a baby? I promise I won’t cut myself!”
With some reservation Serena cut the end of the can completely off and rather reluctantly turned it over to her daughter.
“Thank you!” And Ellie was out the door and away.
“You should wash it,” Serena called after her, but it was too late; the screen door banged.
Holding the round tin object to her small nose, Ellie sniffed and made a face. Swiping it on the skirt of her dress, she continued her way to the end of a nearby shed, her father’s workshop.
Once there, she looked around, locating the items she needed—a hammer and a nail. That was enough to transform the can lid into the object of her planning—an insignia for the Busy Bee club.
Laying the round tin piece on the worktable, Ellie carefully positioned the nail, lifted the hammer, and gave it a whack. A hole appeared in the tin. Perfect! Another whack, another hole, and on and on. Positioning, whacking, positioning, whacking.
Finally, with a gust of satisfaction, she picked it up. Punctured with small nail holes, it showed a close-to-perfect BB. Holding it up to the light, Ellie breathed her pleasure in her success. Laying it down again, she gave one final whack to the top edge of the disk, making a hole for a piece of string or an old shoe lace to be inserted, which would tie the insignia in place around the wearer’s neck.
The nail holes were rough. Turning it over and laying it down, Ellie hammered until the jagged holes were beaten down and comparatively smooth.
Holding it carefully, turning it, studying it, thinking some more, she looked around, locating her father’s vise. She opened the vise a little, then slipped the metal disk into it and tightened it down. Taking pliers, she gripped the edge of the disk and twisted the pliers until the metal kinked in that spot. After loosening the vise, she repositioned the disk, then tightened the vise and crimped in a new place. She moved the circle of tin again and again, continuing to grip and twist until the edge was scalloped all the way around.
